


Let Them Eat Cake

by delusionalbookworm



Category: Disco Elysium (Video Game)
Genre: Christmas Crack, Cursed, Established Relationship, M/M, Stripping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:33:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28245483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/delusionalbookworm/pseuds/delusionalbookworm
Summary: Based on a prompt of Harry jumping out of a cake and surprising Jean.It was Harry's job to hire the stripper for the Precinct 41 office party. Whoops, he forgot though! Whatever will he do?
Relationships: Harry Du Bois/Jean Vicquemare
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	Let Them Eat Cake

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Darelz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darelz/gifts).



> This is for Darelz. Merry Christmas, friend. Enjoy <3

**You** \- You’re inside Station 41, and the annual end of year party is beginning to ramp up around you. 

As per tradition, the end of year party is a night of drunken debauchery that starts at the station and visits several bars, speakeasies and clubs around the city. Last year it had finished at a twenty-four hour diner with the last few survivors of the night devouring fried meats and eggs at 5 AM - in that surreal yet strangely beautiful hour of the morning that gives the early-risers and the still-drunk going-all-nighters equal claim over the vinyl booths and plastic menus. 

Right now though, you’re only three beers in and you’re feeling pretty mellow. You’re sat incorrectly in a chair, nodding your head to the smooth sounds floating over from the cassette player. You’re having a good time, until John McCoy sidles up next to you.

**McCoy** \- "Hey Du Bois, when's the girl getting here?" He asks, his voice low and furtive, like he doesn’t want anyone else to hear him.

**You** \- You look up at him, and note with some alarm that he’s watching you expectantly. Do you know what he's talking about? Just, stall him until you future it out. Don't let him catch on to the fact that you have no clue!

**You** \- "The girl." You repeat. Genius manoeuvre.

**McCoy** \- "The girl. The stripper.” McCoy says. 

The notion rings a bell, but you’re not sure why. McCoy doesn’t grasp the true extent of your confusion, though, and carries on talking. 

“You did tell her to come to the station, not the bar, right? The captain was pretty clear that he does  _ not _ want us to be out partying with a stripper where civilians could see." 

**You** \- "Right. Because we have a duty to our uniform and to uphold the  _ shining  _ image of the RCM." You say, in your best impression of the captain. It earns a quick snort of laughter from McCoy. You feel his exasperation dissipate somewhat.

**McCoy** \- "Yeah, and all that shite. So we need to do the cake thing here. But looking at the amount of booze we've got left, we're going to need to move this party to the bar within the next hour. So your girl needs to get here pretty fucking soon."

**Logic** \- The pieces are clicking into place now. You were meant to hire a stripper. You neglected that duty. Shit. What do you do?

**Drama** \- Lie!

**You** \- "Oh, yeah, don’t worry. She's already here. She's getting changed into her costume in the bathroom now." You say, with a casual ease that you yourself have never possessed, but have always admired in others. 

**Empathy** \- Success! He buys your story. The tension eases from his face, replaced by a grin seedy enough to rival The Expression. 

**McCoy** \- "Great! Well, once she's ready, get her into the cake, and then I'll grab some boys to carry it through into the bullpen.”

**You** \- "Will do!" You nod.  Getting up from your desk, you make your way out of the room as quickly as is possible to do without arousing suspicion. You are looking for somewhere to pace and scheme and find a way out of this, and somehow find yourself in the evidence lockup.

**You** \- How did you let this happen? You promised Jean that you wouldn't embarrass him by ruining the holiday party this year! 

**Rhetoric** \- To be fair, when he said ‘don't embarrass me at the party’ he did mean ‘don't get drunk, and don't sing loud depressing ballads at karaoke again’. Jean definitely hadn’t been envisioning this.

**Electro-chemistry** \- You both knew that was just a fantasy, though. There are infinite possibilities, endless possible playthroughs of the way this evening would go, and all of them -  _ all of them _ \- ended with you clutching at that microphone and wailing into it as though your very life depended on it.

**You** \- This, though. This is a new and unexpected way of ruining the party. No stripper. No entertainment. A huge hole in the cake for no reason. What are you going to do?? You won’t be able to find someone now, it’s far too last minute. 

**Inland Empire** \- Something catches your eye, and you stop pacing. You don’t know why, but something about a box at the far end of the room is making you want to inspect it. Containers have that effect on you sometimes, and you’ve learnt not to question it. Boxes are there to be opened and rifled through. Anything you find is yours to keep. It’s just the way of the world.

**Perception** \- You catch a glimpse of red satin inside the box, and your eyes widen. 

**Logic** \- This is a terrible idea.

**Electrochemistry** \- This is a  _ fantastic  _ idea.

**You** \- You snatch up the contents of the box and shove them deep into your pockets. You hope no one notices the bulging in your pants as you sneak out of the evidence lockup, and slide into the interrogation room. The interrogation room, where the cake is being kept. 

**You** \- Once inside the interrogation room, you shut the door behind you and pull the red satin out of your pockets. You’ve always felt like you had what it took to be a performer, but you’ve never ventured beyond the odd karaoke night. Maybe it was time to push yourself. Flex your wings, try something new.  Fantasies of superstardom whirled in your mind as you began to undress.

**Hideous tie** \- “No! What are you doing? I will not be replaced by some whore's robe!” It shrieks as you loosen the knot.

**You** \- "Oh calm down, I'll be putting you back on when this is over." 

**Stolen Lingerie** \- “It's my turn now, big boy. I'm here, I'm willing and I'm totally your size.” You hear the collection of garments say as you pull it on.

**Limbic system** \- The feeling of the cool material against your skin makes you shiver. It's not an unpleasant sensation, you have to admit. Right. Now, into the cake you go. 

**Perception** \- The second two tiers have been baked around a small metal platform that the dancer crouches on. Getting inside without destroying the layers of carefully frosted sponge is going to be an acrobatic feat for the ages. And then there's the small matter of getting the top tier into place once you're inside. 

**Conceptualisation** \- The dancer would have had other people to help her get inside - people to lift her up and hands she could hold to steady herself. But who needs friends when you've got chairs? Create a staircase for yourself out of them, and you'll be golden!

**You** \- Stacking chairs next to and on top of each other, you manage to construct something that looks sturdy enough to support you. No, not merely sturdy enough. It is a masterpiece of architecture, this staircase of chairs, this  _ chaircase _ . Now you just need to set your plan in motion. 

**You** \- You crack open the door and yell out into the corridor. "We'll be ready for you in five minutes!"

**You** \- Now you've got to hurry, just in case they don't take five minutes literally. You start climbing the chaircase, but wait. Something's caught your eye. You hear footsteps approaching. You have to hurry.

**Physical Instrument** \- Success! With the speed of a professional sprinter and the elegance of a cat trained in the art of ballet, you descend the chaircase, race to the doorway, snatch down the sprig of green and white, race back to the chaircase, grab the top tier of cake, ascend it, and make the leap onto the platform effortlessly.  If there had been a row of judges watching, you would have been awarded all tens.

You crouch down to fit into the small cavity, perfectly positioning the top tier of the cake, filling the hole above you as you do. Everything is in place with seconds to spare before the door opens. Now all you have to do is wait.

  
  


**Esprit de Corps** \- Chester McLaine and Mack Torson enter the interrogation room. The first thing they notice is the chaircase, your beautiful creation.

**McLaine** \- "The fuck is this?" He asks, immediately beginning to demolish it. You almost weep at the loss. 

**Torson** \- “I guess Du Bois couldn't lift her into the cake on his own. Hell knows why he made this instead of just asking for help. But the top's on, so I guess she's inside. Everything okay in there?" He asks, lifting his voice loud enough for you to hear him.

**You** \- Oh shit. You hadn't prepared for this. In as high and girlish a voice as you can muster, you reply. "Mm-hm! All good!"

**Empathy** \- Success! They buy it. Maybe it's the layers of sponge concealing your true identity, maybe they've had enough beer to dull their sceptical natures, but whatever it is, they're happy to not question it. To them, you are a stripper, and you're safely inside the cake.

**Torson** \- "Where is Du Bois, anyway?" This question is quieter, he isn't expecting an answer from you.

**McLaine** \- "I dunno. Bathroom, maybe. Eh, he knew we were on a time crunch. I say give him ten minutes, and if he doesn't show up by then, start without him. He'll at least catch the tail end of the show. I'm more worried about how we're going to lift this thing."

**Torson** \- "It's on a plinth. You grab this end, I'll grab that one. Right, now lift."

  
  
  
  


**Esprit de Corps** \- Jean looked at his watch, trying and failing to conceal how worried he was. Precinct holiday parties were usually a disaster - once the booze started flowing, you had a tendency to overindulge, and once you were drunk, it invariably became Jean's job to babysit you. By the time that happened, you were usually too drunk to be able to read the expression on his face to know for certain how he felt about it, but the words infuriating and heart wrenching had been thrown around in the past.  Your disappearance is making Jean more anxious. You know this is going to be worth it, though. He's going to love your performance. 

**Limbic system** \- The inside of the cake is dark and cramped. Your muscles are beginning to complain at the awkward position they’ve had to take to fit inside. On the upside, it smelled incredible. You slowly crane your neck forwards, and take a small bite. Mmm, sweet vanilla sponge. You have no idea how long you wait inside, but eventually, you hear the music being turned down, and McCoy starting to speak.

**McCoy** \- "Hello everyone, can I have your attention please?” McCoy asked, raising his voice enough to be heard above the various conversations happening around them. Slowly, the room grows quiet. 

**McCoy** \- “Don't worry, I'll make this quick. As you all know, Captain Pryce couldn't make it tonight, but he gave me and Mack a discretionary party budget to celebrate the fact that this year has been one of the best we've ever had. Our arrest numbers are way, way up, and numbers of solved cases aren’t bad either. So tonight, as a way of saying good fucking job everyone, drinks are on the Captain!" McCoy said, the pride in his voice almost drowned out by the chorus of cheers his words were met with.

**McCoy** \- "But, that's not all!” McCoy continued. “Before we go over to the bar, we've got a surprise for all of you. Bring out the cake!" 

**Perception** \- At this, you feel yourself being lifted and beginning the slow procession forwards. Finally, you are set down again, and you hear the music beginning. It's a blues-y, seductive tune that conjures images of a smoky dance hall and large burlesque feathers. You feel something stir within yourself. It’s the re-emergence of a superstar persona that you’ve always known was there but that you’ve had to hide for so long. There’s just no place in this gritty, violent, occasionally civil-liberties-and-human-rights-violating job for a dazzling, show-stopping performer. At least, there hadn’t been a place for it, until now. You’ve had no training, of course, but such a minor detail would never stand in the way of a true superstar. 

**Physical Instrument** \- The music swells within you, and with a flutter of your heart, you surge upwards, and burst through the top of the cake, a triumphant cry erupting from your lips as you push through and send chunks of sponge and frosting flying in every direction. In that moment, in the whirlwind of movement and colour, when nobody yet knows that it’s  _ you _ , there’s a surprised, good-natured roar from the crowd. When the icing settles, you start to dance. 

**Esprit de Corps** \- Wherever Jean had thought that you were, and whatever he thought that you were doing, it certainly had not been this. Jean sits, eyes wide, mouth hanging open, as you begin to sway in time to the music. He’s powerless to do anything except stare at you, and take in every detail of the scarlet red lingerie that you’d found in evidence (conveniently confiscated from an unlicensed cathouse), the festive red hat at a jaunty angle atop your head and the sheer, fur-lined robe currently draped across your shoulders. 

**Jean** \- “Harry what are you doing?” He whispers, dismayed. His eyes work their way down your undulating body, and finally fixate on the sprig of mistletoe pinned to the front of your borrowed panties. His cheeks turn beat red, and yet he still cannot look away.

**Esprit de Corps** \- As the other officers begin to realise that it is in fact you _ , Lieutenant Harrier Du Bois,  _ who is dancing and crooning along to the music in front of them - the realisation most likely helped along by the sight of your distinctive moustache, the undeniable bulge in the front of your undergarments, and the woeful lack thereof in the front of your upper garments - they find themselves torn. Do they jeer and laugh at the sight of their colleague gyrating in front of them? Or do they admit to themselves and each other that you’re actually doing a pretty good job?

**Electro-chemistry** \- You’re playing a game of cat and mouse with your audience, and curiously, you’re finding yourself alternating between being the hunter and the hunted. You flirt with them, revealing skin only to cover it again a moment later. You arch and preen, confidence oozing from every pore. Somehow, you feel that you were made for this, and your audience is beginning to come around. You remove your hat, swinging it around your head in a wide arc, almost as though you were using it to lasso your audience and pull them in further, and when you let it go and throw it out into the crowd, there is an appreciative cheer and a clamour to catch it. 

**Physical Instrument** \- You’ve reached the limit of what you can do whilst still in the confines of this cake, and you know any unaided dismount is going to be embarrassing, to say the least. Crossing your hands over your chest as though to cover yourself from onlookers, you then slowly, sensually, run your fingers across the bare skin of your chest, uncrossing your hands and spreading your arms wide, 

**Suggestion** \- “Well? Isn’t anybody going to lift me out of this?” You ask, as though you’re surprised nobody has offered already.

**Suggestion** \- Success! As though compelled by the surreal nature of the situation, several officers step forwards. Two of them on each side of you take hold of your outstretched arms and lift you up. As they walk forwards, it’s as if you are gliding effortlessly down to the ground. You thank them, and return to your routine, now uninhibited by the confines of your freshly baked prison.

**You** \- You’re making this room your own. It and everyone inside it belong to you now. The languid rolls of your hips, the poses you strike, the way you grasp the edges of another officer’s desk and arch back, it’s all mesmerising. You see Jean, and smirk at the stunned expression on his face. You walk past him, and as you do, you reach out and let your fingertips trail under his chin, gently closing his open mouth for him. 

**You** \- The music is speeding up, building towards a big finish, and with it, your actions are getting raunchier. You almost feel the wave of heat that passes over your audience as you bend over a desk and invite a fellow officer to spank your disco-sized backside. You feel a strange force take hold of you, as though you’re being possessed by the Patron Saint of Sex, the Lord of the Dance himself, and as this force takes over, you feel yourself blacking out.

**Perception** \- When you come to, you’re standing on top of a desk, in the finishing pose of a championship gymnast, your chest heaving and beads of sweat pricking your forehead. All you can hear is the roar of the crowd, a thunderous cacophony of cheers, claps and wolf-whistles. You glance over at Jean, and are surprised to see a strange look of pride on his face. He smiles at you, and your heart swells. You’re surprised at the route that you took to get here, but you’re certain you have found your calling.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know what possessed me to write this in the style of Disco Elysium's dialogue but once I started I couldn't stop.


End file.
